


The Lion and the Lamb

by sinfulsheep



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Brief pre-rainbow, Character Study, Developing Friendships, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Eventual Comfort, M/M, Reconciliation, Self-Destructive Behavior, Unrequited Crush, stubborn men being stubborn men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-01
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2021-01-16 12:57:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21271415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfulsheep/pseuds/sinfulsheep
Summary: Olivier Flament; the Lion among them fitting right into the connotations of his callsign. Strong, assured, and destructive. Gustave swears disdain, yet there‘s something alluring that keeps him curious regardless.So he observes.





	1. Chapter 1

The way Olivier carries himself is the first thing he notices of the man, a smug aura shrouding the other Frenchman like a thin blanket devoid of warmth emphasized only by the cold icy stare of his blunt blue eyes and careful stride. There was a certain entitlement attributed to him, accentuated by his aristocratic features. Careful steady hands, lacking the usual callouses one would get through years of working in the field, soft and thoughtful when tampering with anything he got his nimble hands on. 

The locals named him after a great beastly cat in their native tongue, referring to him as merely “Lion” when not under his scrutinizing gaze, and Gustave couldn’t have thought of a better name for the man. His voice was booming; assured and holding an ounce of recklessness as he speaks and Gustave would have called out each fallacy in his arguments - would have metaphorically dug his nails in the big cat to tear the pale flesh, dusted beautifully with soft colors of primrose, just to strip away the self-fabricated barriers and find the undertones carefully hidden under the confident facade. 

But he refrained, held his tongue and distanced himself even when he found his morals unchecked or intentions mindless, and maybe that was the first mistake that lead to the spiraling staircase of disaster. The daunting lion was the expert in the field, the commands being backed up by multiple other people with knowledge of the situation far outweighing his and so he didn’t voice his objections until it was too late - the hesitation derived of his concerns stinging harder than the impacts of the finalized outcome. The putrid stench of blood and bile filled the air battling the already strong lodoform and insulin smell that took weeks to get out of his nose, remaining a lengthy reminder of hopeless devastation.

Olivier was merciless now, his gaze unforgiving and indifferent. Abyssal blue eyes giving way to nothing. Expressionless. Judging. Bored, as he distantly stared at the slick white flowers littering the crowded room - his stony resilience an outlier among the many others who’s crumbling demeanor held airy sorrow, faces red-hot and wet as they cried out in distraught. A fit of overwhelming anger bubbled up inside of Gustave exerted by the trembling hands sinking deep into the cushion of the chair in front of him as he stared at the shell of a man across the room, finding his imposing stature and regal essence bittersweet. A warning sign hidden by milky skin and a dusty blonde mane that went unseen. A red herring, its dangers lacking divisible clarity through the misleading soft pretty exterior. Gustave bit his tongue drawing out the tangy metallic taste of blood, his fingers tightening their hold painfully on the chair as he bore holes in the back of a pale freckled neck. Olivier didn’t turn to meet his harsh gaze - didn‘t even give a whiff of acknowledgment. Instead, he kept his eyes glued to the floral decor, lips pursed and fingers tapping incessantly on the knuckles of his hand. If Gustave didn’t know any better, he‘d almost fool himself into believing the man held a shred of remorse in him - but he was the inconsequential murderer. Self-aware of the possible outcomes that had been preachingly spewed out by Gustave and a few other colleagues’ protests, yet carried out regardless without a shred of dignity for the dead and the dying because of _protocol_. Gustave scoffed.

Even had the audacity to appear at the man he unintentionally killed‘s funeral service, emotionless and guarded. Probably didn’t even know the fundamental basics of the dead man he’d worked alongside with such as his full name, aspirations, likes and dislikes-only showed up because it‘d be inappropriate if he didn’t. Gustave was fuming.

  
He learns from a mutual acquaintance that Olivier is neglectful to his son - to his family in general - a one man parade with himself as the focus and nobody else. It’s oddly fitting and he finds himself thinking back to the funeral service, his eyes distant and oblique, unaware of his surroundings and giving off a forceful impression of the situation being more of a chore than a respectful memoir. But then there are times where Olivier completely changes the playing field and flips expectations upside down leaving Gustave utterly baffled.

Like now.

Because there’s a rosary in his gloved bloodied hand, the touch of the object sending frightful shivers down his spine as he contaminates it with Olivier's own blood staining the thick latex of his gloves. Gustave glances at the sleeping Lion a few feet away, unconscious curtesy to the anesthesia, and seeming paler than usual. His skin was sickly, residues of grime and blood ever so prevalent on the soft flesh of his face and hands. The weight of the holy item was heavy - not physically but more so emotionally. It was tinged with regret, as if lavished by it’s owner with nothing more but pleads for forgiveness, and there’s a certain anger that arises in his stomach at the thought. He thinks back to the careless way he treated his coworker’s ( and many other’s ) life and the description of his rebellious teenage years, seeking forgiveness and fulfillment from a divine entity rather than the living ones he impacted. It seemed absurd and almost cowardly to him, yet he couldn’t deny a certain humility to it as well. An attempt for redemption no matter the impracticality of it.

He never apologizes, outright refused to do so to anyone but the god reflected on the rosary - and thus the sins he carried on his back were bore by the dangling mahogany wooden beads and silver cross, the weight solid yet unfortifying. Broken, almost, and he imagines the once intimidating stature of Olivier slumped over holding the rosary to his aching heart - the collision of his decisions hitting him all at once and the image brings a sting of pity to him and reminds Gustave that the person he adamantly thinks of as beastly is human too.

_Not a Lion._ He reminds himself with a grim look as he rubs a thumb over the creases of the embroidered silver, tainting the previously well-kept glimmering cross with it‘s owners dark scarlet blood. L_acks the strength rippling in his muscles below a heavy pelt and the untouchable assurance that comes with being an apex predator. _

_He’s a man._ He thinks as he looks at the tranquil figure of the sleeping blonde, his face slack and calm rather than tense and contrived, a certain peaceful prosperity radiating off his formidable figure as he took deep shallow breaths through his nose. _Vulnerable, weak, capable of failure. _

Without much given thought Gustave stays momentarily with the fragile man, cleaning off the blood he’d unintentionally wiped on the treasured item, and observes him with the same amount of trepidation one would give a sleeping bear. Mystifying, an entrancement that kept his gaze lingering on each contorted shadow enhancing the untouchable, almost divine, petrifying energy that surrounded him even while being injured and broken. 

A beauty that though was hidden in the deepest backs of his mind, repressed strongly from mere spite and disdain, made him want to reach out and leech off the man’s scent. Kiss and bite his split lip, if only just to make him bleed and weep _just so he could feel the same amount of pain he’d unknowingly brought through his actions._ He told himself in a contrived manner and ignored the urge to indulge in the depths of his thoughts that nagged at his fervent mind. _It was wholly inappropriate,_ he tutted himself as his glossy hazel eyes swept over the lion, imagination running rampant as he humored himself in the thought of large sharp canines hidden behind closed lips. Teeth capable of ripping flesh, sinking deep into skin and muscle. Not with the intention to shred apart but rather to lock Gustave into place and drag him beneath murky depths to decompose alongside with him, people like him were an intoxicating poison. His ultimatum was that he shouldn't get too close and without another glance at the man he left, looking behind his back every so often.

Even when sitting in the confines of his room with nothing but the harsh contrasting shadows and intimidating stack of paperwork, he glanced behind him. A part of him expecting to see a snarky lion prowling in the darkness contaminating his room, eyes slitted and teeth bloodied and snarling. But there was nothing but the impersonal objects of his room that stared back at him.

Even years later, when Olivier had for the most part been off his mind, he looked behind him. 

Yet just like a lion slinking in the deep undergrowth of a savannah, he strikes unexpectedly the moment Gustave lowers his guard.

  
\- 🌕 -

He never thought he’d have to come into such close contact with the formidable beast in such a short amount of time, yet here he was - his interest captured in the briefings of intel. Olivier’s pale skin was flushed, thin beads of sweat gathering at the creases of his forehead from the harsh New Mexico heat. Gustave couldnt help but glance every so often at the man when he spoke, inquiring articulately about the matters of Operation Chimera whenever new information and strategies were brought to the table. Gustave couldnt help but keep his gaze lingering on the blonde, inquisitive gaze enamored with the sweat-slick strands of hair sticking to the sides of his forehead and the way Olivier’s eyebrows furrowed when met with apprehension or rejection by Eliza.  
  
Gustave clenched his fists as he tuned into the briefing, narrowed eyes glossing amusedly at Olivier’s increasing exasperation at the situation - especially when the widely discussed topic of Dr Macintosh came into play. His tone became sharp and punctual, the familiarity of his apathy painful as Gustave was suddenly bombarded with memories of harsh humid air drenched with the stench of sickness and death in a god-forsaken quarantine zone. A booming French voice, as sharp as the angles of his face, making way to disaster that still haunted Gustave during particularly dreadful nights. The more he thought of it the more connections he tied between New Mexico and Africa, the connotations of it making Gustave nervous. It had been nothing short of disaster once Olivier got involved. Gustave began to grimace, the moment of adoration making way to disgust whenever he regarded Olivier. Sharp claws bringing nothing but anger ledged their way into his tender heart, latching onto him and propelling the feeling into his mind with each drawn out syllable that left the Frenchman’s tongue.

The people around him seemed to feel similarly, their faces slack and terse though held a shred of respectful interest in the same way one would have when confronting an egotistical commander who was beyond age of retirement. His voice, while respectful in a distant sense, was laced with an undertone of agitation that did not go unnoticed. Eliza seemed cautious, the fire inflamed inside of the woman enraged at his obtuse insolence - yet held herself from dismissing him out of her sight because both he and Lera were the experts on this field. Another painful reminder of Africa. He had been the expert there too - and yet it was his decisions ( or rather lack thereof ) to follow protocol that caused catastrophe there too. 

Lera seemed to be at a constant state of uncertainty and was dismissive of questions Gustave asked about Olivier, shrugged off his inquiries laced with a faux indifference as if he was undermining her and her vouch for the Frenchman. Not that he could blame her apprehension, Olivier seemed to be someone arising intrigue among the annoyance - his character unfriendly and sharp. Hesitant, unlike the influx of openness and amiability shared between the other operators who tried to welcome him warmly despite the tensions running high in New Mexico. Two new faces were always a wonder for morale, and yet it seemed as though Olivier only brought it down considerably with his unforgiving gaze and blunt disinterest.

But it wasn’t true, and was merely a facade Gustave envisioned to lower expectations. Gustave noticed the strength bristling in his body, narrowed eyes focused and centered even when going through an actual embodiment of hell; gutteral screeching echoing among the sterile white hallways and the tortured mangled bodies of civilians ravished into horrible monsters. He was an embodiment of light, offering solace with his capability and freshly devised drone - the confidence Gustave once found obnoxious was beginning to seem more and more exhilarating. If it wasn’t for the fact that he had to keep his guard constantly up, the wrong move possibly leading to horrible disfigurement or death, he’d marvel in this side of Olivier he’d never been graced with before. 

He _was_ spectacular and truthfully, despite Gustave‘s initial biased reluctance, he fully deserved his prestigious place among the ranks despite the gossip spreading behind Olivier’s back. He moved with precision as if the length of the morbid hallways were nothing more than the French countryside, his stride strong and willfully ignorant even under the malicious corrupted glint of the infected, and seemed unbothered by the soulwrenching screeching bordering a fine line of human and monster. A part of Gustave was mildly worried, finding the detachment exuded by Olivier concerning yet was undoubtedly one of the key causes to their survival and success.

Gustave still found the amalgamations, while horribly deformed and mutated, still human - their human like qualities sparking an ignition of protectiveness he unintentionally wanted to prosper in. Perhaps that was a set back for him, and he humored - for just only a minute - of Olivier‘s sneers describing him as weak for his strong rooted belief in humanitarianism. The collision of these thoughts hitting him like a truck when Gustave nearly imagined humanity in one of the monsters eyes, it’s husking body dripping and oozing with puss and dark liquid on the tile floors, its sharp spikes jutting out in a contorting concave. He‘d hesitated shooting the distracted infected, his bumbling mind inquiring the rabid beast of it’s physicality as if redemption for its bloodthirst was possible. 

His efforts nearly costed him his life were it not for the prowling lion, his reactions sharp and aware unlike Gustave‘s who‘d been drawn in to his own _humanitarian_ weakness - probably playing right into Olivier’s expectations of him as a fool. Gustave scowled as he drew in a deep breath, clutching tightly onto the sturdy build of his combine. He regarded the stilled body with trepidation as he regathered himself, hands shaking slightly as he glossed over the shot body - instinctively flexing his fingers in a cringe when his gaze glanced over the sharp tendrils and oozing pores. The bleak lifeless gaze stared back at him, reminding Gustave painfully of the humanity it was now lacking. if it had any to begin with - perhaps it was merely a mental ploy he’d devised to give himself undeserved pity for the murderous creatures who had once been the very beings he‘d sworn to protect. 

He heard a sharp insult hissed out to him in French, a scorn adorning the vulgar perpetrator’s cross features inflamed in the vibrant blue of his eyes that brought Gustave back to life from his state of momentary shock from the sudden colliding events. He could see the annoyance mingling on his expression caving way to anger, and if looks could kill Gustave would certainly be six foot underground with the taller Frenchman kicking up dust on his tombstone. Olivier harshly stated the obvious: _‘never do that again, are you insane?!’_ With his teeth bared and gaze enraged. Gustave felt himself wince, feathers ruffled in his life-threatening embarrassment and remained silent as Olivier merely snarled before turning abruptly away to bark a cursory order to trek onwards. 

Olivier never once showed an ounce of concern, his disinterest prevelant in the opaque glances they shared as if he was merely a setback; an obstacle getting in his way. Maxim had shown his worries - albeit hesitantly- with a tense_ ‘are you alright?’_ the stress of the danger that could've happened weighing heavily by the strain of his voice. Despite Maxim's probable inclination to the gesture, Gustave appreciated it nonetheless. Olivier, however, merely scoffed at them; his tongue silent yet expression livid.

It made for one awkward ride back. Despite the fatigue chipping away at him he felt electrified, hands trembling uncontrollably and drooping eyes darting back and forth. Between the adrenaline of nearly being roach-food, excitement on possibly getting his hands on an end to this disaster alongside a like-minded doctor, and the sobering blunt blue gaze from the lion amongst them, rest was impossible. 

Doc shifted his weight so that he was facing the other Frenchman, narrowing his eyes at the tension in Olivier’s jaw. Olivier was desultory and merely regarded Gustave with bemusement whilst laying slack against the sturdy, chilled, iron walls of the helicopter, claws flexing experimentally over the assault rifle on his lap. 

“Thank you.” Gustave said in their shared language, the taste of the words feeling funky off his tongue. Olivier stilled, waiting a few tense moments as an influx of words seemed to swarm in his mind - Gustave could almost hear the gears turning in the blonde’s head. He was docile, hesitation painted across his face. Gustave couldnt blame him. their exchanges had always been terse and almost accusatory, Gustave finding a knack at making Olivier seem like a sociopath uncaring of civilian lives and undeserving of any credit handed to him; it was petty. He’d realized it multiple times with meaning to stop, but something about Olivier did things to him. From the height difference, to the overbearing amount of confidence he exuded, and indignation held in his eyes whenever their gazed crossed, Gustave would get tilted - the repressed remnants of his decayed objections spewing out and livening. 

So when Olivier merely just grunted, remaining silent despite the fact he could most definitely call Gustave out for the recklessness he wasn’t known to have like Gustave had done to Olivier so many times before, Gustave was a little a thrown off balance to say the least. 

\- 🌖 - 

He's an obstacle;immovable and grounded. a constant that'd forever drift in the forefront of their minds. Always there, lurking, slinking around tall metaphorical savannahs with a piercing wide-eyed gaze like the beast he chose his callsign after. Cautious. Alert, striking out at any sudden movement like a savage animal who‘d been denied its food. The other operators in GIGN watch Olivier with a shred of concern. He purposely distances himself from everyone except for Gilles, and even then it had been a grueling process not quite unlike that of befriending a feral cat to earn his trust and friendship that even now is still shaky. They talk about Olivier as if he was an estranged relative, with hushed whispers and quick shameful glances towards his direction. It was mostly Julian who initiated the gossip, Emmanuelle adding on and providing further depth, and Gilles as the destabilizer who‘d always butt in with disappointment lacing his baritone voice to cut the conversation short. Gustave merely existed;floated in the realm and payed a meager amount of attention to whatever havoc they talked of that involved Olivier, finding it distasteful to talk about coworkers ( especially coworkers belonging to the same team for heaven’s sake ) behind their backs. 

Despite his adamant refusal to participate, his eyes fail to leave Olivier’s body studiously as if he was a piece of eccentric artwork; fluctuating between wanting to know more about the Lion’s quirks and concerned for him. Gustave has begun to pick up certain attributes and impulses Olivier tended to have, a sense of dread washing over him every time he’d picked up on something new Olivier does as if he was getting into something he shouldn’t. 

Gustave watches Olivier’s hunched status betraying overt body language of wistful loneliness as Olivier darts his eyes from the mingling groups of operators who tended to exclusively situate themselves near their other teammates, the shared language and culture providing a sturdy connection and sense of belonging. But not with Olivier who avoided everyone like the plague, and adamantly refused to sit with his fellow countrymen even when it was _Gilles_ that had asked. A part of Gustave wanted to feel sorry for Olivier, finding the longing stares tainted with jealousy directed at Lera sitting with the other Spetsnaz operators to be rather disheartening. But he brought it on himself, distanced himself purposely merely to wallow in his self-made feeling of unbelonging, and it kept Gustave torn.

_”... Can’t believe he’d say something like that to Sébastien of all people.”_

_”... It’s not my problem, I swear if he gets himself in trouble one more time I’m going to let him get knocked out for it.“_

_Olivier, Olivier, Olivier._   
  
It never was a matter they left to rot; always bringing it back up even when the topic was beginning to decompose and crumble - they always fished out something to dwell about. Gustave was slowly beginning to realize why Olivier avoided them because truthfully, despite his initial beliefs, he _was_ treated like an outsider - so much so that their shared country and organization wasn’t enough to bring them together. He imagined Olivier’s presence intermingled with them to be similar to a stranger straying around, unbelonging and carrying a different kind of energy that could cause an imbalance in their group chemistry. 

Gustave bit the inside of his cheek, his gaze being reproached by Olivier’s own - his pursed lips and furrowed eyebrows lacking words yet providing enough depth to gauge him. ‘_What_?’ He seemed to growl, a warning sign of his discomfort under Gustave’s studious stare as loud as mortar fire, even if it lacked the practicality of language.

“I can’t believe he still doesn’t ever want to just... be agreeable, it‘s like he’s always looking to be on everyone’s bad side.“ Gustave ground his teeth, digging his fingernails deeply into the soft flesh of his palms to feel anything other than the annoyance that was currently flowing through his bloodstream. An impulse.

“Can the both of you just stop it?“ Gustave snapped, the thin rope holding his composure beginning to dwindle into nothing more than a few strands. “You guys are both gossiping like a bunch of giggling schoolgirls, grow up!“ Gustave stared at Julian and Emmanuelle their expressions once snarky now more timid and docile, latent with confused. He could feel Gilles‘ grateful eyes pierce his guarded aura, relief and appreciation drenching the broader man. 

"Gustave's right, he's our coworker _and_ teammate. Have some common decency - and talking about him behind his back definitely doesn't solve any problems he has. Give him a break, he tries _so_ hard. You guys act no better than recruits sometimes." The rumbling mountain spurred alive, thick eyebrows furrowed in anger. Despite the deceitful calmness he exuded, Gustave could tell that the taller Frenchman was pissed - undoubtedly feeling disrespected his wishes were soiled time and time again. The warmth he usually brought to the group was absent, a sharp coldness brewing in the atmosphere nearly choked its inhabitants - Gustave included. 

Olivier's name never left their ill-lips again, and slowly they began to find peace among the antisocial man. Gustave unintentionally observed Olivier when their paths strayed; finding a soothing comfort when witnessing the man find solace amongst the other operators. Gustave witnessed Olivier and Julian converse in quick-spoken French where previously anything said to each other was merely abrupt and punctual, bordering on rude as they fixated each other with a shred of unimportance. Not now, however. Gustave watched Olivier's lips curve up in a genuine smile as Julian let out a hearty laugh;its gutteral tone addicting as Olivier followed shortly with laughter of his own that made Gustave double take. Olivier? Laughing? Not scoffing? _Impossible_. 

Yet here it was in plain view, the Lion's sweaty face thrown upwards and tilted slightly as he laughed alongside Julian - it made Gustave crack his stony facade with softening features. It wasn't a one time thing either, their interactions remained mostly positive - and now the words that left Julian's lips about Olivier tended to be about how _capable_ and _respectable_ Olivier was as if he hadn't been the one to bring up every single one of the blonde's faults weeks prior. It was sobering and it seemed as though Emmanuelle had warmed up to him too, often playing the role of his savior from tense stand-offs. 

"I think I may have misjudged him a little," were words Gustave initially had thought to never hear from the woman, yet found her contentment with Olivier to be liberating nonetheless.

It wasn’t just the other GIGN members Olivier was getting acquainted to though. Gustave witnessed a shared inside joke between Olivier and _Dominic, _of all people, and has occasionally heard talk of Olivier and Elżbieta being drinking-mates. He seemed to be genuinely getting out of his shell, slotting into his own niche corner of awkwardly timed quips and sarcastic comments alongside people who were well - similarly troubled as he put it - and didn’t piss off nearly everyone who breathed around him. 

It was why Gustave had been shocked to see the object of his studies clutching tightly onto the side of his face, vivid red blotched around his cheek and lower jaw, the formation of a bruise from a solid impact. Gustave grimaced at the strained Lion, his unimpacted eyes staring daggers that were not quite directed at him. Emmanuelle was with him too, her elegant hand resting softly at the base of the back of his neck despite the amount of times Olivier tried to shrug her hand off.

“What..? What happened?“ Gustave inquired, shooing away the hand desperately clutching the side of his face to inspect the impact. Gustave grimaced, the area around his cheek was tender and warm. If the strike was any lower, he would’ve been at risk of unconsciousness and a broken jaw. Gustave palpated the surrounding area, taking note of the places where Olivier especially winced and grunted - it wasn’t anything serious thankfully and could be solved with a godsend simple solution : ice. 

“Something escalated during training between him and Mike, and I was only there to catch the end. Olivier called Mike a _veteran_ outliving his glory and in response Mike almost knocked Olivier out cold. Thank god Seamus and Gilles were around too though, because Mark and James were just about ready to jump right in too,“ Emmanuelle said with a scowl, her tone accusatory when regarding Olivier and let her hands drop to her side when Olivier finally snapped and slapped the hand resting on the nape of his neck hard with a rough ‘_stop it, shut up!_‘. Gustave remained wordless, merely responding in a soft hum of acknowledgement to the explanation given to him remaining unaware to the rising tension shrouding the two other operators.

”I should have just let you get hit, maybe then you’d learn some gratitude with a crooked broken jaw!“ Gustave glanced up, feeling the build up between the two other operators. Before Olivier could retort, eyes enraged and vexing as he snapped his head to face the just as annoyed French woman, Gustave jumped in. The tension shared between them affecting Gustave as he was suddenly bombarded with the stress they had suddenly begun radiating eating at his own already strained composure. 

“Stop. Both of you. If that is all, please leave Emmanuelle so I can focus on _Flament_.“ Emmanuelle glanced at Gustave with offense, seemed taken aback momentarily as if Gustave had slapped her right across the face. She merely muttered an affirming okay, stalking out of the small room in drudging heavy steps with both of the other men‘s pensive gaze locked on her retreating figure.

“It wasn’t my fault.“ Olivier mustered out, hurt piercing his voice that was _very_ discerning from the usual strength and assurance it held, and Gustave _almost_ felt pity for him. He had a thickness in his voice, a darker redness tinting his face separated from the bruising formed on his face, and eyes glossed over - his resolve was crumbling. 

Gustave remained silent letting Olivier draw out his words himself as he reapproached the man, pressing an icepack against the swollen area around his face. ”He called me a righteous asshole who prances around daisies all day,“ Olivier paused, shriveling his nose and wincing when Gustave applied harsh pressure to the icepack on his jaw. ”He harps on me about mistakes all the time but when _Porter_ does something stupid it’s fine, that isn’t fair. The other day the idiot nearly shot me in my stomach and you want to know what Baker said? He said ’aim lower‘! Stupid bastard!“ 

”Keep your hand here, please.“ Gustave muttered placing Olivier‘s neglected hand over the icepack where his own hand had previously been, the phantom sensation of Olivier‘s touch electric. Gustave didn’t reply to Olivier‘s venting, merely let out loud puffs of air to show his acknowledgment and the lack of reception was surely getting to Olivier. He was a bubbling pot of anger and regret, the emotions brewing inside beginning to fizzle up and spill over exaggerated by the storming gaze he shot Gustave and the large claws flexing and clutching the icepack impulsively. 

”What have I ever done to anyone?“ Olivier exasperated eyes dark and accusing as he stared at Gustave, a challenge lilted in his tone that made Gustave nearly shudder. 

Gustave thought of Africa, Oliviers to-the-book following procedure leading to the useless deaths of aides and patients in quarantine - the death of their own coworker who could have been more easily avoided.

Gustave thought of the numerous times he‘d heard other operators complain of Olivier‘s brashness - his outright blunt cold attitude that rubbed most the wrong way in the beginning. Even now, only mere minutes ago, he‘d offended Emmanuelle without a care. Gustave could only imagine the harrowing experience between him and Mike, there was probably more to the story left out for the sake of painting Olivier as a victim.

” What have I done to _you_?“ There was a waver in Olivier‘s voice, the cracking syllables sending a foreign pain through him. He didn’t know how to respond, uncomfortable with the boundaries Olivier was breaching - this was unnatural. Gustave remained silent averting his gaze from the Frenchman as he walked back to his desk, hopeful that leaving the overwhelming emotional mess out of his sight of would reduce the impact on him. He was wrong.

“Keep ice on it for 10 to 25 minutes, take it off for about 15 and repeat. do it continuously for a few hours to reduce swelling, and if-“

“I‘m _sorry_.“ The blunt interruption was sudden and under any other circumstance Gustave would be annoyed at being cut off, but confusion took hold of him instead and made him reevaluate the words spoken.

”_What_?” Gustave was dumbfounded, blinking suspiciously at the mess of a man standing only a few feet away from him. the only time he’d ever heard Olivier apologize was when it benefited him, but Gustave had nothing to give and so the apology struck him off guard, sent his mind tumbling down a flight of stairs trying to understand the beast’s intentions.

”I’m. Sorry.” He said punctually, exaggerating each word and syllable as if _that_ was the cause of his confusion. “I’ve seen the pictures. Of Africa, you and the personnel - your colleague.” Gustave felt his breath catch in his throat, tense muscles stiffening with a quiver as coy blue eyes glance behind his figure. Gustave doesn’t need to follow the sneaky Lion’s gaze to know where the sly overly perceptive orbs landed; the photo already inducing a harrowing sense of dread whenever he looked at the youthful ghost staring at him, eyes hopeful and exhausted yet strong nonetheless. A memory now more bitter than sweet, the lifeless gaze holding only bleak nothingness that was now more prominent than the liveliness he had once been familiar with showcased in the image. Gustave raised his hand upwards, a wanted request for the ceasing of words that payed no homage to his colleague yet went unseen and ignored, adding only salt to a gaping wound when it had meant to be a bandage.

”I’m sorry about what happened, everything that was done in West Africa was done for a reason. I was under the impression that it was for the right cause, and I still stick by my decisions - I prevented potential devastation that could’ve gotten way more people killed and I wouldn’t have done it any other way. Maybe there was a way to prevent his and others’ deaths, I don’t know, all I know is I made the choice that kept it contained even if it was at the cost of a few lives. It could have been much, _much_ worse.” Gustave is trembling now, an unshakeable fury burning his very core scorching away at his innards while the cold fixated eyes of Olivier stared distantly at him; his emotions unreadable and arising a distinct feeling of ice resting in his gut rivaling the fire flowing through his veins. _It wasn’t an apology_ he realized belatedly, repeated oscillating hands hidden under the cerulean latex of his gloves impulsively struggling to regain his normally poise composure. Flexing fingers dig deep into the rubbery latex, nails pricking through minute layers of skin to feel a certain - more physical - pain rather than the overbearing emotional one flooding through him. 

“That’s a very backhanded apology, isn’t it?” Gustave bit out after the waver in his body ceased giving him a misplaced trust in the stability of his voice. “Don’t act all high and mighty, you didn’t do anything on your own volition. Everything you did was under the guise of protocol, an undying loyalty to the placed rules despite the severity of the situation because of what? It was the easiest thing to do? You had nothing to lose except the lives of people you don’t care about? You don’t belong in this workforce, the fact that you’ve made it this far is absolutely crazy to me. You don’t care about anyone but yourself, you lack the empathy to save lives. Selfish.”

Olivier was close now, his posture straightened and assertive where before it had been slouched and insecure. He was _really_ feeling the height difference now, playing right into Olivier’s intentions of feeling cornered - a rabbit on the verge of death cowering in the mercy of the predator slinking through the shadows of the undergrowth.

”No, Gustave, am I really the selfish one here? I saved countless lives - I’ve saved your life - but it all doesn’t matter to you, why? Because you were close to someone whose life was in the hands of god and was beyond saving? Was this one man’s life really _that_ important over the countless other lives? Don’t you dare call me apathetic or selfish, you damned _hypocrite_.” 

Gustave’s breath hitched, eyes widening under the unforgiving expression painted across the other Frenchman’s face - the Lion he meant to trap through his words escaping and catching him at his own game. Sharp canines disguised as words dug deep into flesh and bone, tearing the soft flesh and leaving Gustave utterly exposed;repressed guts and palpated organs spewing out to the ravaging beast in front of him.

Releasing a drawn out breath, Gustave looked at the ground. _Defeat_, because as much as it stung - and he’d never admit it outright like this - Olivier was correct in a sense. He expected Olivier to outwardly marvel in his victory, sharkishly smirk at Gustave’s downfall, yet the only thing he was reproached with was a frown and annoyed misunderstanding swimming in the deep blue of his eyes. 

“_Get out. _I don’t have time for this. I have things I need to get done instead of fighting over the past. this conversation is over.” 

To his surprise, Olivier didn’t fight. Merely relinquished himself to Gustave’s desires and exited the office wordlessly without so much as a glance back. An emptiness settled in Gustave’s gut, discontent with the myriad of emotions that began to arise and overpower his anger - disappointment being one. He scowled.

The office’s lonely atmosphere only amplified the longer he stared at the dancing words showcased on his laptop’s screen, the draft of an email suddenly seeming unimportant as a phantom touch of sorrow took hold of him - the dark shadows of the room being a needed solace to the thundering thoughts storming in his mind, the darkness providing a stark contrast to the bright light exuded from the screen of the laptop lighting up the surrounding area with its white luminescence. 

Olivier never left his mind, neither did his _atrocious_ apology or the _manipulative_ _advantageous_ way he used his height to embark a sense of _superiority_. The words, holding a truth that seared through the thickly layered guarded defense, played like a mantra through his discombobulated mind.

Funny it was him who was the one lackluster at apologizing, his ruined pride holding him back from crying out ‘_you’re right, I’m sorry.’_ to Olivier. He’d made himself out to be a damned fool, Olivier holding him at checkmate.

Instead, he locked himself in his own office distracted eyes paying no heed to the pile of work on his desk, preferring to stare at the mundane sterile white walls as shadows contorted and swam across the expansive walls.

An ample distraction from the storm in his own mind that kept him underwater drowning on his own volition before coming up gasping for air before it got too hectic, repeating the process unintentionally despite the strain it brought to his heart. 

\- 🌗 -


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ✨this was way longer than I’d intended for it to be - nearly a 10k word chapter but what can I say? I love writing both doc and lion.  
✨warnings for : self-destructive behavior because lion. mentions of suicidal thoughts and sex when the perspective changes - neither of which explicit but the idea is still there. stay safe y’all :).

Gustave was no stranger to the night. The silent taunts from the daunting clocks meant to be helpful playing a constant reminder of **_every_ _little_ _thing_** that had to get done. Time was a narcissist, pummeling through and leaving those who couldn’t stay on its oppressive pace behind - Gustave included. Each tick of the mechanical clock above him was the only sound to fill the void of his office, a constant thrum similar to a banshee’s shriek; the impending feeling of doom rising in his gut with each condescending tick.

_Tick_. Never-ending, a mantra of an insane man feeding into his morbid cycle. Trapped inside his own body, locking himself inside an office meant for healing instead playing the role of a temple of his anxieties, its divine entity of dreary loneliness holding an iron grip and drudging him through gritty apertures of self-doubt. _Pragmatic_, people called him, pride and idolization set ablaze in ignorant eyes. They saw successful operations and medical permits framed on his office wall, turning their backs and harboring a blind eye to his numerous crisises that got him to where he is, and allowed him to suffer his silence alone. The only visitor to his pain was time. A constant in his life, a bitter essence straying the back of his mind and offering him no respite.

_Tick_. Time was all he had, yet time didn’t need him and merely held him hostage in its clutches. Gustave reaches out to it for comfort nonetheless, accepting the daunting company and leeching off its exhilarating ability to never change. An enemy formidable, holding a fabricated danger to his crumbling being that he couldn’t let go. Stockholm syndrome, in a way. A transient force that left Gustave to suffer in its trails, merely hoping to catch up and adapt. But he never could and often suffered the struggle alone.

_Tick_. Gustave let out a shaken sigh, rubbing his cheeks as a last-ditch effort for comfort through the endless night. The Frenchman leaned back in the soft seat of his chair, wincing when he heard the chair creak underneath his pressurized weight. A sudden noise erupted, breaking the cycle of obtrusive ticking as the timid sound of knocking was heard. Gustave glanced wearily towards the direction of the sound, exhaustion weighing heavily on his soul as he merely glanced at the figure looking into the glass panel of his door with disinterest.

“Gustave?” A rumbling mountain stood behind the door, his expression taut as he peered through the framed glass, his gaze filled with concern that seemed only _partially_ directed at him when they locked eyes. Gustave gave a longing look at his forgotten work, the stacks of unfinished paperwork holding the same allure as a decomposing animal in that he didn’t want to touch it with a ten-foot pole but _someone_ had to clean it up.

“What are you still doing up?” Gustave greeted Gilles with no pleasantries, the tension of the night still seeping deep into his cold aching bones leaving him brittle and terse. Gilles didn’t flinch at his harsh tone, merely blinked and gave Gustave a grateful smile when he moved inside the office much to Gustave’s slight annoyance. Gilles was a storm of a man; a disruption in his lair of momentary self-pity. A crashing gargling wave offering a familiar warmth, drowning Gustave in a crushing resilience that turned him into silky mush when regarded by his soft-spoken friend. 

”I could ask the same thing to you,” Gilles responded, amusement littering his tone that was meant to be light-hearted, drawing out a sense of persecution inside Gustave that made him inwardly flinch. “Just because you’re a medical professional doesn’t mean you’re safe from your own health.” _Hypocrite, _he filled in the unspoken words - a gentle yet hurtful reminder of Olivier’s presence here two weeks ago that had never quite left. Gustave didn't reply, instead settling to remain quiet and bite on his lip to draw out the topic Gilles seemed to be dwelling over. He wouldn’t have come here at this hour if he didn’t have something important to say.   
  


An awkward cough broke the silence, followed up shortly with “I’m_ worried about Olivier,”._ The new topic made Gustave noticeably frown, but he held his tongue regardless for his dearest friend’s benefit and allowed him to continue. “He’s ah- well,” A pause, followed by a continuous stream of broken words in an attempt to gather his thoughts together. A strange sight to behold, as Gilles was usually one of the more composed operators. “He’s distancing himself from me, and whenever we do talk it’s awkward - especially when I’m with Dominic. I notice he always tries to leave the room when we’re together, and he just always seems so... Mad. All the time. he’s going to get himself in trouble again.” 

“He‘s like that with everyone,” Gustave dismissed Gilles’ concerns, getting increasingly flustered at the repetitive topic of Olivier that only enflamed when reproached with annoyance from Gilles.

”No he isn’t. Maybe to _you_. You never gave him a chance,” The words were thickly veiled, spoken sharply and drawled out as if Gustave’s dismissal left a harsh taste on his tongue. Gilles’ eyes narrowed, throwing Gustave an almost accusatory look but didn’t expound on it. “He’s usually so open to me. There’s something wrong - I just know it - but nobody else seems to think the same way I suppose.” Gustave blinked dumbfoundedly at the other man, biting his lip subconsciously as uncertainty rushed through him. They usually sought each other out when the stress of work and personal life got too much, so this shouldn’t have been as unexpected as it was yet still left Gustave baffled nonetheless. A little annoyed, too. Gustave glanced at the piling paperwork that was still lying invitingly on his desk. There were better ways to spend his time than dwelling on the oddities of a lion. 

”I don’t understand. What is it that you want me to say, Gilles? I don’t know _Flament_ like you do.” Gustave finally replied after a moment’s hesitation, forcing out a deep exhale as another rush of fatigue reminded him painfully of the begrudging night. The mountain near him seemed to tense as if a boiling eruption was bubbling up inside. He remained static though, the only evidence to his dissatisfaction being a downward twitch of his pursed lips. 

“Yeah. Right. I don’t know what I was expecting,” Gilles moved with heavy steps pacing back towards the door, disappointment radiating off the man with each passing second. An influx of negativity bombarded Gustave at each step, tugging at his sternum and leaving a combusting feeling swelling up in his chest. “Get some sleep, Gustave.”

And so, with nothing else to be said, he was alone. Once more conceived in a blanket of darkness as Gilles left, his physicality absent yet leaving being a phantom that became a drifting factor contaminating the once sterile room throughout the hazy night.   
  


————————

“Hey, babe, I got you something.” 

A sheepish German was currently leaning over their table, hovering closely to Gilles with a precarious expression when met with the collective GIGN members’ expectant faces at the disturbance. Gilles shifted his focus from Olivier, who had suddenly started the habit of joining them at their table in mess hall after a _lot_ of persuasion, and brightened up when met with Dominic holding out a small bag harboring the name of a small nearby café. 

“Oh! For me?” Gustave heard Gilles inquire when he opened the bag, watching the two operators with interest as he sap on his coffee with a grimace. The coffee was bitter, lacking any sweetener or creamer making the liquid distasteful. But not as bitter as a seething lion sitting a few seats away. Gustave’s brown eyes narrowed in an amused interest, watching silently as he saw the blonde’s hands curl into a tight fist - gaze flickering between Gilles and Dominic with an almost _pained_ expression. _Interesting_.

“Mhm. Of course for you, you dummy. It reminded me of you, for uh, obvious reasons. I uhh... May have eaten a few on the way over here, hope you don’t mind. They’re pretty damn good.” Olivier was _steaming_ and seemed to nearly vibrate with each passing second, his panicked gaze quivering when locked with Dominic’s far more snarky one that sparked a silent challenge between the two men. It was an odd interaction between them; with Dominic’s lilting tone softer than normal when addressing Gilles, his boyfriend, with sugared words and overbearing display of affection. All while maintaining eye contact with Olivier, who would always freeze up in alarm, before thawing out into a puddle of tormented anger. Gustave wasn’t sure what context this rivalry had - they had gotten along fine in the earlier weeks - and yet now there was tension between the Frenchman and the German_. Homophobia perhaps? Over this blossoming relationship?_ Religion played a huge factor in Olivier’s life, and Gustave imagined him to follow it to the teat - just as he does with everything else. It wouldn’t surprise Gustave, but there were moments that made him backtrack on his conclusion. 

Like the crumbling despair that flourished on his pale face whenever the couple shared tender moments; soft quick kisses in the workplace, straying hands that stayed connected for a little too long, and a glimmering adoration glistening their eyes when met. Dominic was a storm of chaos, nothing - especially his cherished relationship - was downplayed and it left Olivier riled and coiled up in aggression, shaking as if he was on the verge of exploding. Yet there had never been disgust in his blazing eyes. Instead, the deep sea of blue held Jealousy. Crashing waves hidden in the azure, a limitless expanse of a helpless sea that kept him silent with his pleas. The knowing smirk painted on the German’s face spoke of awareness, relishing being the victor in their newfound rivalry as if he’d won a long-fought war. A stark contrast to their reluctant friendship in the earlier weeks of Olivier’s arrival after Chimera and now they treated each other like mangy dogs starved of Gilles’ attention.

“That’s fine _love_, I don’t care much for pastries. I just appreciate the sentiment and besides, the children probably won’t leave me alone until I fork over a few anyways.“ Gilles pointed to Julien, the previously expectant look making way to embarrassment that surged shrill laughter throughout the inhabitants of the table - the outlier being Olivier who was still _fuming_. He was bristling at the words, a rose-red color dusting the primrose shade, hands clenched tightly as a valiant attempt to contain the moisture glossing his eyes. _Honestly_, what was the matter with him? 

“Are you alright, Olivier?” Gilles asked, picking up the dense sorrow contaminating the atmosphere, worry drenched in his deep tone that drowned out the previous light-hearted atmosphere. His concerns, that were probably meant to be reassuring, only emphasized Olivier's state of distress. 

“Can you fucking — I’m fucking fine, I just need some air.” Without so much as looking at the other operators around him Olivier stalked off, a storming lion snarling at any sign of movement in his periphery that deterred even a concerned Monika from approaching him. It left the other GIGN operators speechless and awkward, unsure of how to approach any kind of conversation after such an outburst. 

“_Drama queen._” Luckily Dominic was there to ease the silence. The German, unphased, merely watched Olivier’s slinking figure leave the hall with disinterest before taking the now empty seat next to Gilles. “He couldn’t handle all this _gay air, _hmm?” His words proctored a sharp look from Gilles that made Dominic contract in his seat and shrink back in his skin.

”Dom.” A warning, meant to diffuse the situation and make Dominic back off, had only poked the pestered bear. 

“What? He’s a homophobic dick, have you seen the way he acts around us now? Why are you upset at me when your _best friend_ can’t even accept you. You’d defend him with your life, what about me? And would he even do the same? I doubt he cares about anyone but himself. I know what people like him are.” Judging from the sigh exhausted from Gilles’ lips, this was not an uncommon topic.

”He’s not... Dom, stop. Let’s not talk about this here - or anywhere. Enough with it, please.” Was all Gilles had responded with, plunging the atmosphere back into its tense silence - Dominic’s passive-aggressive remarks now void as the German sulked in his seat, hurt piercing through the usual stoicism.

_Excellent_! Now things were even worse!

”...Maybe it’s just that time of the month for him, eh?” Julien offered with a queasy smile, breaking the harsh silence with an uncomfortable laugh that was reciprocated by an equally stressed Emmanuelle - though did nothing to ease the choking air that gripped the operators tightly. If anything it made it worse. Gilles was unamused and seemed almost offended at Julien‘s light-hearted poke, his thick eyebrows furrowing with indignation that immediately made Julien sink back into his seat.

”Are you kidding me, Julien? This is not a joke. _He’s_ not a joke, you’re such a child,” Julien‘s breath hitched in his throat, lips stretched in a thin line in fear of accidentally spewing out any more garbage from his disposal of a mouth. The term child, which had been used as an endearment minutes prior, now only held disdain and disappointment. A low blow. They all knew of Julien‘s inferiority complex, and hearing a man he looked up to refer to him in such a way must be _crushing_. Gustave locked eyes with the steaming volcano, his light eyes darkening considerably and jaw tightening as if seeing Gustave's obscured distant expression was the bane of his existence. “You’re all children.” 

Without letting anyone get another word in, the typhoon of a man got up and abruptly left the hall brooding in the same direction as had Olivier left, driving the table further into their speechlessness. A loud slam on the surface of the table seemed to break everyone out of their quiet trance, heavily accented German escaping Dominic’s lips as he flickered his eyes towards Gilles figure. Gustave couldn't understand a lick of the words leaving Dominic’s mouth - the words too slurred and heavy to make out the details - all he knew was it was very unpleasant. 

“Fuck,“ The sound of Julien‘s cracking voice rang a protective alarm throughout his soul, distracting him away from Dominic‘s distress, and watched the younger man place his head in trembling hands. Emanuelle instinctively reached out, placing her nimble hand softly on the deteriorating man‘s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sorry I just messed everything up, I shouldn’t have said anything. Gilles probably hates me now and I-“ A broken noise left Julien‘s mouth, interrupting his sentence with a soft sob that left Gustave breathless. 

The mingling operators around the room tuned in, curiosity peaking their concerned eyes upon noticing the sudden change in demeanor, but sharp stares from Emanuelle scared off anyone from approaching. Dominic didn't stick around long, merely gracing them with sympathetic words to Julien that did little to ease the despairing man's worries with a dry distant tone obscuring any potential shred of care, before stalking off to find Elias. Gustave watched Julien with pity, unsure of how to approach the man without causing him to implode. He settled with offering sympathetic glances, feeling compression in his chest as he watched the young Frenchman in front of him take deep inhales through Emanuelle's instructions. 

Gustave frowned, a sigh escaping him as he glanced down at the empty mug sitting tauntingly in front of him before averting it to his two less-composed friends. He didn't have enough coffee to deal with this.

_________________________________  
  


When Gilles approaches Gustave days later, he looks haunted. His eyes were widened and nearly doe-eyed, his hair disheveled through countless misuse as if Gilles had run his fingers haphazardly through the dark strands, and fingers nervously toying with the flesh of his muscled upper arm. "_I know what's wrong with Olivier._" The ghastly man whispers, voice thickening with each syllable as if saying those simple words was barbed wire slicing through his throat. Gustave, unimpressed, is unable to bite back the lengthy sigh that leaves his lips and spares a longing glance towards the laptop sitting alluringly on his desk, wishing silently to go through a day without having to endure some kind of gossip that had no interest or place for him. 

And yet, a new development had grown on him. Especially after the... fateful event... that had arisen at lunch earlier in the week that left the group in an uneasy disposition. Emanuelle, playing the role of Julien's worried mother hen, had stopped by between training throughout the following days to fill him in on anything eventful. She‘d told him of Julien and her growing worries for him, a newfound coldness where there had once been warmth exuded by the young Frenchman that turned icy when Gilles was around and left any poor souls caught in the middle with frostbite. Earlier, she told him of a session where Julien, outraged, exasperated loudly at Gilles after being reprimanded for a silly mistake - something about tripping over a metal leg of a bolted table during simulation - making him and the entirety of GIGN look like uncoordinated fools. Not for the mistake, but because of the outburst that followed.

_"Oh, terribly sorry for making a mistake during training. I'm just a stupid child isn't that right? Always making mistakes?" _

_"Julien, please, that's not what I had meant-" _

_"Yeah, right? Not what you meant, then what was it hmm? Sorry, we're all just imperfect children. Unlike Olivier though, right?"_

Completely unprofessional. Julien deserved the long conversation with Harry, and got off easy for such a disruption in Gustave's opinion. It had stirred a molten pot of unpleasantries; the entire discussion being spoken in _English_ rather than their exclusive French allowed hungry, rabid, frothing, British dogs more gunpowder to their passive-aggressive attacks - not completely forgiving what had happened between Olivier and Mike‘s altercation.

_Olivier. Olivier. Olivier._ It always came back to him like a circlejerk, once Gustave thought it was over he would be suddenly whipped right back to where they started. Like a chemical reaction; one tiny misplaced chemical causing an imbalance and spewing all over the place - and it seemed everyone depended on Gustave to clean up the mess, or at the very least complain about said mess to. It was tiring, yet still he clung onto it much like how an abuse victim would return to their abuser: a twisted form of masochism. he found Olivier interesting just as much as he found him dreadful - his company taking a toll on him even in the form of words - yet he couldn’t help but latch onto the feeling.

_Why are you telling me? I don’t care._ Were words he so desperately wanted to utter out to Gilles - no _scream_ at Gilles - maybe even punch the mountain, anything to get his point across to stop with this type of chatter. But at the same time he‘s suddenly thrusted harshly into a sobering reality of a usually pale face painted red, wetness gathering at the eyes and a trembles exuded from his clenched lithe hands. The abhorrence in his voice, blown pupils darkening in a distilled fury, his meek disassociation from his countrymen - forever straying outside the boundaries of their friendship by choice. It’s worrying, he can’t deny it, and tugs at his heart, chipping away the conserved part of his brain holding him back. It keeps him interested, perceiving Olivier almost as a case study instead of an actual human being and Gustave hates himself for it. 

So instead of dismissal and denying interest Gustave obliges, curiosity a constant parasite eating away at him, nibbling incessantly on his innards and keeping him grounded to get hit by the freight train of information Gilles seems to want to place on him. 

"Go on.“ Is what Gustave says after a moment‘s hesitation, the regret he felt for indulging immediately dissipating when Gilles visibly relaxes, a deep sigh leaving the taller man‘s lips as if Gustave had removed thick sturdy boulders from his chest. He doesn’t miss the way Gilles‘ eyes light up and his thick previously furrowed eyebrows slacken, the relief expressed on his face stinging - a telltale sign Gilles had come here expecting to be disappointed by Gustave - though he still wasn’t too far out from the ball park. He was still tentative, his weariness only ensued from each word leaving Gilles mouth.  
  
  
\- 🌘 -  
  


Home was an abstract concept. Where others sought out a place of solitude - a sanctuary shielding them from the harsh realities of the outside world - Olivier found no solace in the confines of his apartment. A sepulchral temple, an imposing mood shrouding the rooms equivalent to that of being buried alive. Choking and sputtering, turning him into an assortment of purple and blue - his cries for help being represented in the rough hammering of angry drum beats and broken voices from the wide assortment of CDs and music on his phone’s playlist. It was days like these where the expensive golden cross that hung on his neck felt heavy, the light-weight jewelry dragging him down into the ground forcing him to kick up dirt in retaliation and struggle under it's judging weight. It was his chain, and he was the unruly rabid dog. Forever struggling in its grasp, howling, snarling, and snapping to try and get out of its suffocating embrace that only further trapped him in his prison until eventually he’d strangle himself in his wild misplaced rebellion. 

It’s what had happened years ago in his youth, the only difference being under the guise of a perusing gaze and harsh tongue rather than a figment embroidered on a chain. Instead of being obedient and allowing his parent's judgment to infest his mind, he repented - the reactions to his sudden rebellion being exactly what he wanted. When he maimed the hand that fed, the curses and the red-hot fury brought a certain pleasure to him. Where before he’d shrink and tear up, he felt a certain power knowing he could cause this reaction. It made him feel in control. When he came home drunk or high to his tearful mother and father after sneaking for hours on end during school nights, he had smirked at their indignation and relished in their anger. _Do you understand how I feel now? Do you, huh? All that anger? all that pain? Do you fucking understand me?_

Except they never did. Propelling him forward and urging him to do more and more until getting shitfaced into oblivion seemed like child’s play.

In a twist, he hadn’t had any despairing power to begin with. It had been a substitute in his mind to fill in the insecure void, realization hitting him full force when it was too late; his mistakes unchangeable and consequences dire. The impact of his decisions sizzling into him when confronted with his girlfriend’s tearful gaze and cries, the evidence of her distress carefully placed in a plastic bag highlighting every risqué teen’s worst nightmare staring him right in the eyes. The fickle _Schadenfreude_ he‘d experienced before evaporated, turning on him and opening his eyes to his self-absorbed idiocracy so fast it nearly gave him whiplash, the impact of the sudden emotional despair discombobulating him. He'd strangled himself then, a torn man drowning without the solace of having the support of his family. Of his _girlfriend_, a woman he'd selfishly taken from without ever giving - and now it was her turn. He couldn't _breathe_. The chains he so adamantly tried to escape from dragged him down into an abyss, limiting his breathing until all he could do was let out sharp exhales and broken sobs on the sidewalks, grasping the ground and wheezing. He was a bumbling raccoon with nowhere left to go, too busy scouring the trash to realize his world was falling apart and the trash was just a temporary gratification to distract him from the crumbling reality of his life. Nobody wanted to help him anymore, the hand that fed him everything he ever needed had been torn off and disfigured into a pile of bloodied slush. Not his parents, not his sister, not his 'friends', nobody. Another broken spoiled teen. Another statistic; he wouldn't last on these dirtied streets and would inevitably die young on the streetcorners choking on his froth and vomit or, if he was lucky, die with a sliver of respect in crossfire. The army was a Garden of Eden for unwanted desperate souls like him. 

Religion had been a necessity, forgiving himself was impossible without the spiritual crutches to guide him. Without the help of the priests, the church community, and the hope of forgiveness from his benevolent god he‘d be lost. Olivier always suffered soul-crushing shivers at the thought of what his life would be were it not for the hand of catholicism. If his continuation of life after his abandonment would even have been a possibility. There had initially been many terrifying thoughts thrumming through his mind in the beginning - all of them ending with a leap into a cold, dense, liquid, abyss. An end to the beginning, he remembers with a tinge of bitterness of his childish daydreams of adulthood. Settling down - white picket fence and all - with a loving family. Funny how he turned to be the complete opposite of his expectations. 

Who would love him? 

Thoughts like that were a constant whirlwind in his mind that threw him off balance, the four words small yet holding a soulcrushing depth.

Who would love me? He‘d think, listening to his church‘s priest rumble on about the power of forgiveness and love - for both others and himself. 

Who would love me? He remembers asking while clutching onto Bertrand‘s thick jacket, ruining the expensive material with salty tears as his friend murmured soft reassurances into his ear. He remembers explicitly calling out to god, pounding his fists softly onto the sturdy chest of the chaplain - pouring out his heartache to Christ and Bertrand when the mere possibility of seeing his own son was in the air. The same words thought to himself when he eventually saw the radiant little boy months later, his eyes filled with a brilliance for the world that reminded him almost painfully of himself when he was young - the adoration crushed when he‘d heard his son call Claire‘s husband Dad and refer to him as merely “Olivier”. But it was to be expected, he had done nothing but taint his precious cub‘s view of his self worth. 

Who would love me? Cut deep during particularly hateful nights, the sentence holding a multitude of different meanings - disgust, self-pity, amusement. There was the sound of shuffling as clothes were being picked up off the floor and a creaking of the bed as his nightly visitor moved to leave - most definitely far too tipsy to drive responsibly but Olivier had no energy to object. The afterglow was gone, any contentment he‘d feel after releasing this particular frustration was gone and replaced with dread. He conjured up a thickness in his throat he occasionally choked on with the thick drags of his borrowed cigarettes, unable to contain himself from relapsing into the burning sensation‘s nicotine embrace in his own room. The stench would probably be hard to get rid of, but consequences were the last thing in his mind. Smoking was not a habit he indulged in often anymore, but he needed the distraction as he watched the stranger dance in the dark trying to put on his shoes and find his keys. Loneliness flowed through him as he watched the nameless man exit with a gruff “G‘Nite,“ before leaving, and Olivier had to genuinely bite his tongue to keep himself from calling out to the man in order to persuade him into staying the night. The awkwardness that would come in the morning coupled a killer hangover and the fact that he wouldn’t want to grace anyone with himself for longer than he needed to held him back though. 

“You, my god.“ The answer was barely a whisper, more of a profound exhale as he tilted his head upwards to relish in the dissipating feeling of the weight lodged in his constricting chest. His hands clutched tightly around the cross attached to the chain, tightening his grip to feel the points of the jewelry dig deep into the palm of his hands until he felt the jagged edges pierce the skin. Gilles, vividly concerned with the oddities of his deprecating text messages he’d sent earlier, was coming over despite Olivier‘s half-assed rejections. Although initially objecting to his visit, he molded pretty easily - a bombarding feeling overpowering his stubbornness that allowed him to relinquish and agree to Gilles’ upcoming company. The terrifying realization of his adamant attraction to Gilles had hit him a little too late, frowning as a sudden influx of depraved thoughts - mostly derived from his alcohol levels - overwhelmed him. He‘d let Gilles tear him limb from limb if only, just for a moment, he‘d be graced with the gentle giant’s kind smile and soft comforting touches. God knows how much he needed the distraction from his hungry brooding mind. It terrified him, how much power this man had over his well being, the pain scorching hot and searing when any hope of pursuing his infatuation was crumbled by a greedy abhorrent German.

It hurt. Almost as much as seeing Gilles in the flesh at his doorstop - his tired pale eyes still holding a sliver of liveliness even in the late hours of the night. Olivier said nothing when he let Gilles in, breath hitching in his throat when he saw the amiable expression contort into a frown - no doubt smelling the excess smoke from his cigarettes and the alcohol on his breath. If it bothered him, he didn’t say anything. Olivier didn’t clean his apartment, cleanliness being the last problem in his mind, and the dark look Gilles shot him when his eyes glazed over strewn clothes and cheap indisposed beer bottles made him regret it. He was tired of being a constant negativity leeching off Gilles‘ life, and yet he couldn’t find it in himself to push Gilles away or better himself.

“I wanted to talk to you earlier, _Chaton_, but your phone went straight to voicemail.“ His tone was gentle, the friendly nickname rolling easily off the taller man‘s tongue felt like a knife tearing open fresh wounds on his chest. Instinctively, Olivier reached into the pocket of his sweatpants, fumbling with the mentioned device with nonchalance. In his hazy state of intoxication he must not have noticed the vibrations and glanced over it when he sent the jumbled disconnected text messages, he certainly would’ve kicked the sleazebag from earlier out in favor of Gilles’ company - even at the cost of suffering through his ravishing frustration. 

“Oh,“ The crack in his own voice made Olivier cringe, the pitiful look his friend shot him upon speaking made him tense. Taking a deep breath and blinking back the hot moisture prickling the edges of his eyes, Olivier tried to center himself - finding it unappealing to break down drunkenly in his friend‘s embrace time and time again even if it was a lovely feeling. “Sorry, ‘was busy. You don’t have to worry about me though, I‘m fine. I‘m not your charity case, I can take care of myself. I‘m sick of it, I’m not helpless.“ The sorrow he had felt before evolved into something angry, the aggression rising in his sullen tone. Gilles wasn’t on the same hostile limbo though, and still regarded Olivier with sympathy.

“I know, but Olivier I can see you slipping - and I worry anyways. I mean just - you’re drunk on a work night and send me all these... messages. I just want to help you, you’re my friend and I care about you. It’s hard not to be concerned, _Chaton_.” The softness in Gilles voice made Olivier bristle in anger, how could he be so composed when Olivier had him cornered with nothing but aggression? A nauseating feeling of bile rose up in his throat, both the sudden emotional distress and alcohol levels leaving him light headed and queasy. All Olivier could think of was how he wanted to dig his claws in Gilles and slice away the armored shell that kept Gilles so level-headed. He wanted to tear him apart, overwhelm him with everything. all the rectifying feelings and all the nights spent squeezing a pillow between his thighs to incapsulate a feeling he‘d never get, just to make him suffer alongside with him.

But that wasn’t possible, Gilles wasn’t a deranged mess like him. He could keep his breathing even while Olivier stuttered on every gulp of air. 

“I‘m not your friend,“ Olivier slurred thinking out loud, a giddiness erecting in him when a sudden flash of alarm spread on Gilles‘ face - the hurt elevating and spurring Olivier on. He never learns. “I‘m just a fucking broken man that needs to be patched up to you aren’t I? Were you going to toss me to the side when I got “better”? Is our friendship just built on pity?!“ He was a roaring animal, finally uncaged and let loose - the surfacing emotions finally breaking his composure and letting out a disgusting cesspool of rage and despair. He was increasingly crestfallen at every word, adding a fuel to his own fire that scorched and burned Gilles - a helpless victim trapped in the blistering heat. Olivier found his weak point and tasted blood. He was too far gone to back off now.

“Olivier-“

“What about your German boytoy, hmm? Is it like that with him too? Do you suck his dick for charity work?“ 

“Stop-“

“Does it get you off? Rescuing poor souls like us? Like me? Do you even-“ 

“_Please.” _The plead silenced Olivier, the desperation and raw emotion in his scratchy deep tone left Olivier speechless. Olivier was panting, quivering as he remained frozen in a spotlight. He felt severely out of place and idiotic, common sense finally catching up to him belatedly.

_Fuck_, Olivier felt a wetness seep down the curvature of his face that was caught by a hesitant touch. Gilles’ calloused hands rested cautiously on his cheek, wiping away the dripping moisture - the touch meant to be a platonic form of comfort feeling painfully intimate. It made him choke on a sob, overwhelmed by the attractive man’s touch - a desire for closeness screeching in his mind and clouding his hazy judgement.

“I’m sorry,” Olivier whispered when he was pulled into a tight embrace, resting his forehead on the crook of Gilles’ neck. He smelled faintly of aftershave and cheap cologne, the crisp clean smell a sharp contrast to himself. It made him wonder if he had just gotten back from a date with Dominic, the thought sending a surge of jealous anger through him. Olivier still smelled of cigarettes, and despite scrubbing his skin raw he couldn’t quite wash off the disgusting feeling of sex. He felt dirty - a contamination against Gilles. Olivier heard Gilles grunt an acknowledgment, the noise sounding distant and detached despite their close proximity as if Gilles was uncertain of his apology. “Please don’t leave me now,” Olivier added hastily, fingers clutching onto the soft material of Gilles’ sweatshirt like a terrified cat to lock him in place, only relaxing his tightened grip when he felt a hesitant hand resting against the curvature of his back. 

“Olivier, I may originally been your friend to support you, but you’re much more to me now than that,”

A sliver of desperate hope - 

“You’re my best friend,”

Crushed and dissembled as quickly as it arose.

“You can’t get rid of me by just saying words you don’t mean, otherwise Dom and I wouldn’t have lasted for a minute,” Laughter, encapsulated both men, one genuine with fond amusement. The other bitter and disappointed, a pain lacing it bordering a fine line between a chuckle and a sob that was muffled by Gilles’ shirt. Why couldn’t he just live in ignorant bliss that he meant so much more to Gilles without being reminded of _Brunsmeier_. 

Gilles pulled away from the embrace, hands moving to rest on Olivier’s shoulders as he looked down at the blonde with a smile. “Now, I want you to take deep breaths and calm down,” Gilles murmured, leading Olivier to the couch a few feet away after the blonde whispered a quiet ‘okay’. “I’ll be right back and we can talk about what happened then, yeah?” 

Olivier heard Gilles shuffle around his apartment, catching glimpses of the other Frenchman picking up the miscellaneous garbage that lay carelessly. It made Olivier slightly uncomfortable, seeing his friend clean up _his_ mess and pick up _his_ own clothes, but Olivier was too drained to tell Gilles to stop. He was too focused on gathering his thoughts, containing his already broken composure, and deciding which half-truth excuse to use for his emotional outburst.

The familiar sound of 'clink'ing snapped Olivier out of his distracted gaze. Turning his head, he saw Gilles approaching with tired gentle eyes - the heavy pull of exhaustion coddled with the additional stress must be wearing him down. It certainly was for Olivier. In his hand he held two glasses of water that Olivier took eagerly when he approached, not even realizing how parched he was until he took a sip. Olivier watched cautiously as Gilles took a seat on the leather loveseat, feeling small under the man’s expectant gaze that was locked on his fleeting figure.

”So, talk to me..?“ There was trepidation in Gilles' voice, his rough fingers bouncing melodically around the grip of his glass yet his gaze remained grounded and unwavering. It was horribly obnoxious how stable and reliable Gilles was. The complete opposite of Olivier; if he had been in Gilles shoes he would have immediately left without a second thought the second Olivier had gotten aggressive. Gilles always held an airy sublime energy with an awe-inspiring ability to pacify any situation. And he hated it - how easy it was to just mold and melt into Gilles warm embrace and kind supportive words. As if everything could be solved with persistent tranquility. 

“I hate you.“ Olivier winced, swallowing the dry lump in his throat. He-he hadn’t quite meant for it to come out quite like _that_. _I hate what you make me feel, I hate what you make me do even though it’s not your fault and I hate no - fucking **despise** \- how I can’t have you._ A jumble of hate, that’s all it was - but that’s all _he_ had ever been known for. Olivier opened his mouth to backtrack his words, but the uncomfortable way Gilles shifted in his chair and the straggled sound caught in his throat made Olivier breathless and lose any sense of reason. _Merde_.

“Oh,“ His angel says quietly, eyebrows furrowing. He takes a short pause, reaching over and setting his glass of water down on the wooden table before continuing. “And can you ah- can you explain why?“ 

“You‘re gay,“ Is what leaves Olivier's mouth almost instantly without thinking, the words thought out loud and immediately regretted once he saw the _mortified_ look on Gilles' face - the meaning misunderstood. “W-Wait Gilles no- wait I mean, that’s not what I...“ An anxiety-induced gargle of apologies immediately filled the room, an overpowering flood of jumbled words held no meaning to Gilles. Gilles‘ eyes widening considerably and the color drained from his face when the impact of his words sunk in, inducing a shocking shiver down Olivier's spine. 

“I don’t understand. You hate me because... I’m... Gay..?“

“No!“ Immediately escaped Olivier‘s lips and seemed to only confuse Gilles more - though the flash of relief made Olivier relax considerably to get his thoughts some-what straight and concise. “I mean because I-I didn’t _know_ you were gay.“

The confusion plaguing Gilles’ face only made made Olivier increasingly annoyed. Letting out a whimper, Olivier sunk into the soft cotton fabric of his couch and instinctively breathed deeply into the crook of his elbow to hide his face. His upcoming words burned on his tongue and bubbled in his throat leaving him inwardly retching. "I just," The blonde broke off into a long sigh, lowering his raised arm off his face and risking a glance at the other man sitting nearby, before averting his gaze just as quickly when met with nothing but _undeserved_ raw worried interest. "Listen, I spent so long fighting against you thinking that I didn't need you or your help. But it was bullshit, I realized, because god knows what I’d have done without it. And then I spent the rest of that time fighting _for_ you, trying everything I could to get your attention. My apartment has never felt like home without you in it, and everytime I come home I just think of all the hours we spent watching television - when you would make fun of those dumb romantic spanish telenovelas and I pretended I was never invested. And now we never do that. You're with Dominic fucking Brunsmeier and it hurts. Why can't _I_ have that? Why couldn't _I_ be the one giving you those stupid fucking pastries instead of the Wienerschnitzel? Why can't I have you? I tried so hard to come to terms with my - you know, _preference_, and right when I have it's worthless because now you're with someone else now. Another man. And you love him. And not me, and i'm reminded of that fact every single fucking day.“

He felt like he was in the middle of a bombing raid, stuck in the trenches shutting down all inhibition and instincts, relying solely on the adrenaline pumping through his veins for survival. He laid himself bare. Vulnerable. Exposed. As if someone had cut lines through the flesh between his pelvis, groin, armpits, clavicle and sternum, with the precision of a slaughterhouse butcher, before ripping through the strings of muscle, tissue, and bone leaving only his guts exposed to the inspectful eyes of Gilles. He was terrified, and the droning silence only enhanced the feeling. Gilles, usually so easily readable with nothing but a soft gaze, held a stony resilience and all of the emotion that had previous glinted in his eyes were gone. The frigid, unresponsive pale eyes taunted him. He expected Gilles to show a form of disgust at him, scream at him about how he wanted nothing to do with him now that the lion was out of the bag. A smaller - more selfish and hopeful - part of him toyed with the paradise-esque idea of his confession opening something inside Gilles. Feelings, maybe, something promising that was more tantalizing than what his current scarred wrecked lover offered.

At this point, Olivier would take anything of Gilles he could grasp with desperate hands like a beggar on the street. Even a flare of lust from his friend would soothe him; sloppy half-assed handjobs Gilles would definitely come to regret immediately afterwards sounded appeasing even if it ended up permanently tainting their relationship. At least then he could say he got a touch of desire from Gilles, a sliver of affection, even through the basis of rose-tinted glasses. He could boast what Gilles’ touch on his skin feels like - maybe even what he tasted like. It could be sloppy. It could be a mess. Olivier had long learned to grudge through the cesspools of shaky relationships and situations since he was a teenager. It’s what got him here. Olivier would make them work out even if it was like gluing fragmented glass together, because every bleeding cut would be worth it so long as he’d be able to feel Gilles’ tender embrace. And that’s all he ever wanted, right?

“Oh,” His object of desire speaks at last, voice wavering as he ran a hand through his dark hair. “Olivier I’m sorry but I-”

“Gilles,” Olivier interrupts, adjusting his weight on the couch to scooch at the end of the couch to get closer to Gilles who stilled on the leather loveseat at his sudden movement, pale eyes cautious as he watched Olivier’s movements timidly with fluttering lashes. “Gilles, _please_,” He couldn’t bare to hear the words that would inevitably come out of Gilles mouth. So he pleaded, stalling for the Frenchman’s silence from before. It offered him a deceitful shroud of solace that he took with hungry greedy hands, not having to hear Gilles’ imminent rejection eased his aching heart even if the impending doom was on the horizon just waiting to strike. “Don’t say anything.“ Olivier whispered as meek as a mouse, his voice barely audible yet spurred Gilles to rise from the loveseat and hesitantly step towards Olivier. He stared at the towering man, his breath catching in his throat. He expected a strike, fingers curling and digging into the soft fabric of his couch to brace himself. 

Olivier winced when instead soft hands held his face, a gesture normally so tender feeling like sandpaper. “I care about you, I love you, and I want nothing but happiness for you,” Gilles voice was shakened, the rough baritone sounding hoarse as he kept back the emotion glistening his eyes. Olivier bristled, he told him not to say anything! but he didn’t have the strength or willpower to hiss his dissatisfaction. “But I’m sorry, I don’t - I can’t - we can’t-“

Olivier let out a bitter laugh that interrupted Gilles. He didn’t want to hear anymore. “I get it, yeah.” Olivier relaxed in the man‘s grasp, melting at each gentle thrum of fingertips pressed onto his cheek and relishing in the touch as if it would be his last. _it probably would be. _Olivier was more aware than anyone at how much Gilles disliked sending misleading signals, and after Oliviers confession physical contact would be stalled - if he still continued to talk to him at all. “I‘m sorry I shouldn’t have said anything. Don’t let this ruin our friendship, please. I don’t know what I’d do without you, I’ll get over it okay?“

Gilles pursed his lips, stopping his ministrations as he regarded Olivier with hesitance. Skepticism glinted his cold pale eyes. “Of course not,“ He agreed with a reassuring smile that left Olivier feeling uncertain on whether it had been meant as reassurance for him or Gilles. 

“Promise?“ 

A pause. 

“I promise.“ 

—————————————————-

Gustave had always found rain enticing. Ironic, as it was also coincidentally the cause for most of his sickness growing up as a kid. 

It had always been a symbol of hope for him though. Where others found it undignified in it‘s dreadfully eerie gloom and inconvenience, Gustave found it exhilarating. It was a reminder of change that, through an analogy passed down to him through his grandmother‘s words, each droplet of rain that pattered his tanned skin would absorb his troubles, where it would then cascade down into the depths of Mother Earth to be forgotten and solved into new life. Of course, it was a childish tale, and Gustave was more than aware problems had to be solved headfirst, but the words were still held dear to his heart regardless. He had never been bothered by the batter of raindrops until he got undercover to revel in the heavy dampness that‘d weigh him down. The liquified attack on his skin never inconvenienced him, whereas others would scramble to save themselves the trouble or vehemently avoid the contact in general - though he was far from judgmental.

So it had been a little strange to see someone carelessly stand underneath the violent rain, pale face slanted downwards as each harsh patter dripped down the curves of his thinly structured face. He was a resemblance of a serene sublime beauty and Gustave couldn’t help but watch the way his blonde hair, now dark and almost auburn from the dampness of the rain, had thin wet strands sticking to his pale forehead. Water pooled in his combat boots, that he was beginning to realize were sloppily untied and loose, flowing elegantly down the dark leather material to pool into the muddy ground. Gustave grimaced, finding it odd enough that Olivier hadn’t gone home already. He was always one of the first to leave, giving off a harsh vibe that miscellaneous unneeded social interaction between his coworkers was undesired idiocracy to him. Didn’t matter of course that a good relationship between his coworkers could save his life one day! But there must have been a certain disturbance in his life to keep him from the sanctuary of his home in favor of the depressing company of the rain - Gilles‘ visit in his office a few nights ago still ringing sharp alarms in his head. 

The news was... Concerning. Unexpected, to say the least. Drama has always been a horrible headache to Gustave, and _honestly_, haven’t they already had enough lately without now having bouts of jealousy to deal with? Luckily, it hadn’t seemed to affect either of their performances - even while working together during training - and it both surprised and relieved him. The hateful glances Olivier sent Dominic anytime the German was around his vicinity did not go unnoticed by Gustave, but nothing angry or problematic has ever been said between them. Julien and Gilles‘ conflict had already been enough to make the French team look like idiots, so he was thankful for their maturity at least. 

But, of course, not everything was fine and it’d be ludicrous to expect that, and right now was a perfect example. It was hard to make out his expression, the details of his face intangible, but he didn’t need to be a genius to figure out the emotions that were prevalent on Olivier’s face. He envisioned a haunted look, a ghost-white paleness on his face and perhaps a tinge of redness in his eyes from holding back his distraught. The distress had to be let out somehow, and Gustave was willing to bet money Olivier didn’t believe in therapists. Despite the rather harmful tactic of standing drearily under the rain as a form of expression, Gustave was glad he was dealing with his stress like this rather than taking it out on others - though in experience people like him were a ticking timebomb. Gilles had been his only defuser, and now the possibility of Olivier opening back up to him anytime soon was next to none.

Optimism is key though, even if such naivety was the cause of disaster. Operations in Africa proved that; both ending in nothing short of disaster.

Gustave watched Olivier’s trembling frame cautiously, eyes narrowing at the other man’s clenched hands grasp around his shivering arms in a feeble act of containment. ”Lion?” Gustave called out softly after walking a short distance back to his office to fetch an umbrella, and cursed quietly at the tremor in his voice from his concern. Olivier tensed when Gustave spoke, head lifting slightly to allow pale blue eyes to sweep over Gustave’s approaching figure.

He looked like shit to say the very least. There were bags under his eyes that Gustave had been aware of previously, but now were highlighted prominently from stress. He had doubts Olivier had a healthy sleeping schedule, and the recent anguish certainly didn’t help. He looked sickly, redness dusting his cheeks and nose, and he was sure standing in the cold rain for an absurd amount of time did little to help him from developing a cold. 

“Gust - Doc? What are you doing here?” Olivier asked nervously, the absurdity of his question making Gustave scoff. 

“You’re standing right out in the open where anyone can see you in the rain, it isn't very hard to see you. The bigger question is: what are _you_ doing here?” The harshness in his tone didn’t even phase Olivier, who merely blinked slowly at Gustave’s retort and relaxed when Gustave angled the umbrella above Olivier, leaving Gustave to suffer the chilling penetration from the falling raindrops above.

”I don’t know,” the mumble of an answer nearly went unheard by Gustave, too busy fussing over a stubborn lion who adamantly refused to hold the umbrella as if the damned thing insulted his religion. “I was going to go home, but then I stopped.” _I’m scared _was missing from Olivier’s lackluster reply, but Gustave could nearly feel the anxiety radiating off the other Frenchman. Having to deal with troubled and broken soldiers and civilians the majority of his career came in handy in situations like this.They all shared the same grim expression and stoicism, though the stony facade always crumbled eventually, and Gustave had a tendency to get hit with the aftermath. He was no stranger to comforting sobbing men and women, holding them softly in tentative or embracing hugs or as an open ear to those who had nobody to listen. Gustave had a feeling this was no different, though the exact extent of Olivier’s state of mind was mostly a mystery to him. 

“Why don’t you come back with me to my office? It’s quiet there and won’t give you a cold or pneumonia,” Gustave’s voice softened, careful with the phrasing of his sentence that’d make Olivier more keen to reject his offer. “And I’d like the company. If you don’t mind, of course.” The soft “_okay_,” was enough of an agreement for Gustave, who gave an appreciative smile and a kind ‘_merci_’. Gently, Gustave took the metal spine of the umbrella to lead Olivier back inside, herding the normally intolerable man like cattle while asking easy to answer questions to distract him that eventually built up to _Olivier_ asking _him_ simple questions when the two of them had long been in the ‘sanctuary’ of his office.

Olivier, stretched out unselfconsciously on the exam table and possibly ruining the soft leather padding from his damp clothing, was merciless with his questions - the distraction ambivalent. He honestly didn’t have time to answer something like what his favorite _toothpaste_ flavor growing up was, yet he’d come to appreciate it nonetheless until eventually he’d completely abandoned his work. That’s what the unholy hours of the night were for after all, right? Instead, he turned his chair around to face the grinning lion, his hair a messy mane that was better suited for a mop. His pants that were still vaguely damp clung to his muscled legs, and if it weren’t for the fact that the only clothes he had here were either hospital gowns or his own clothes that were too small he’d have offered Olivier to change. “_You could just take off your clothes, nothing I haven’t seen before - I’m your doctor after all - and it’s better than developing and dying of pneumonia_” was on the table too, though in hindsight that might’ve been a little too weird - and having a naked man in his office wasn’t entirely on his agenda. Olivier just settled with taking off his shirt, a fine solution to their impasse, and the multitude of scars adorning his body made way to more conversation starters anyways. 

It was... lovely. Surprisingly, as Gustave had initially thought Olivier would be insufferable or break down crying. Neither happened, and Gustave had _almost_ asked Olivier to stay hours later when the blonde decided the prospect of home was no longer as terrifying as it once was. It was heartwarming seeing him seem almost _lively_ as he left, his entire turn around of emotion seeming almost uncharacteristic to how he’d been the past few weeks - yet soothed something deep inside him. There was more to Olivier than what was often showed on the outside and despite originally being skeptical, he could understand the appeal of being his friend and no longer considered Gilles to be a crazy madman for adopting the rabid feline as his best friend.   
  


\- 🌑 - 

** _Gilles T. 22:24 - _ ** _Hey. Terribly sorry for bringing this up to you but do you know if Olivier went home by any chance or is he still at HF? Dom told me he’d still seen him hanging around HF when he left, which is weird for him to stick around. Thanks! 😺_

Freeing laughter encapsulating a normally constricting office between two bodies over fond memories of the past, both beings dancing around the intrusive elephant of their past differences to relish in their new found contentment. _“I can’t believe you used to be apart of a band,”_ being the cause of their shrill amusement, one embarrassed and the other incredulous. As if an hour before, both of them hadn’t been caught up in their own dispositions and worries and on the verge of cracking down. One more uneasy than the other, though equally disturbed, slowly dissipating among pristine white walls of an office. 

_**Gustave K. 22:26** \- He’s fine if that’s what you are asking. He was in my office. He left forty-five minutes ago to go home._

The buzzing sound of a phone went ignored, the text message holding no appeal to a hunched man who’s empty loneliness nagged at him mercilessly. The only sound in the room was the incessant typing of his laptop’s keyboard and tired labored breathing, exerting through the sluggish exhaustion that screamed a broken uncoordinated opera throughout his body. He was wistful, longing the sound of a soft voice that offered him an escape from this silent torment with fleeting laughter. A mechanical clock was thrown into a bin, disassembled and haphazardly lying inside, though a few miscellaneous pieces remained strewn over the cluttered desk.   
  


_**Gilles T. 22:27** \- Thanks again! 😊 I hope you do the same too, get out of that office before me and Dominic go over there and drag you out! 😂 Goodnight!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading this far my loves! 💗💗💘
> 
> [ My Tumblr!](http://sheepish-uwu.tumblr.com) \- come say hi or talk about this godforsaken game and ships with me! ;-D

**Author's Note:**

> ✨ started out as a 2k word practice drabble that I got too attached to and this happened.  
✨ i dislike how everyone treats lion like a punching bag who makes mistakes ;( he deserves better. a misunderstood character and honestly hope to offer a better perspective that he‘s not the only one who’s flawed in rainbow by the end of this. i swear im going to start a lion support group. 
> 
> \- -  
As always comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, thank you for reading this far my loves! 💗💗💘
> 
> [ My Tumblr!](http://sheepish-uwu.tumblr.com) \- come say hi or talk about this godforsaken game and ships with me! ;-D


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